


The Love of a Thumb and Forefinger

by Zabbers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bondage, F/M, PWP, Telepathy, abuse of the Colony Sarff, regeneration play, starts off dubcon but ends up without any doubt at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 22:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: The Doctor in snake bondage, risking his regeneration. How can Missy resist?





	The Love of a Thumb and Forefinger

They've been here before. But they're Time Lords, so that's nothing new.

Regeneration snakes are a delicious idea, but Missy's very, very angry at the Colony Sarff. So she's been playing. She's made modifications. A bit of genetic manipulation here. Some amendments to the voting process there. From democracy to republic to dictatorship in a few deft flicks of the pipette and the snip snap of a radiation knife. Almost as easy as politics! Well. Earth politics. Those childish bodies, so sweet.

Still, there’s something about that organic slither, the moment something moves on the still screen of your eye and you realise what you had thought dead has been lying in wait, slumbering with one eye open to watch as you step ever closer, waiting to catch you unwary-- _Snatch_!

Missy laughs. Oh, such a shiver when inanimate matter turns to flesh. Oh, the shudder when the hand grasps something metal that instead squirms and quivers in response and grabs back. Life and blood surge through the sinuous body before it steals those same things forcibly from the fool who reached out, taking and taking as though sucking it all down, throat throbbing in endless peristalsis.

And here they are again. The Doctor in her grip, treacherous snakes doing her will this time, forked tongues firmly tied. A tight little circle.

She paces the pit, studying her handiwork like it’s a stitched sampler. What a lovely thing she’s knotted into its centre. 

Because she’s slaved the Sarff to her mind, it takes only a thought: two of them scrape their scales across the cement to bracelet his ankles, drag him to his knees. She bends to his level to look him in the eye. Her skirts brush the floor.

“Do you remember…?” she begins.

His eyes are always so _open_ , like he thinks he can best her at telepathic control through petty, repetitive entreaties. “You don’t have to do this. You were so sick before, but not now. You don’t need to this time.”

Missy exhales, a little puff of disbelief, sticking out her lips. She cocks her head. “And just what is it you think I’m going to do?”

Through the Colony Sarff, she can feel his hearts pump; through them she craves what they’ve been programmed to crave. One by one, they crowd around him, draping themselves over his calves, sliding down his arms, his chest. A slow seduction, an inexorable yearning. Some of them are heavy, long. Constrictors and swallowers. Others, small, swarm like plies on a rope. He doesn’t seem to notice. She knows better.

He’s stubbornly silent, so she stands abruptly and walks away, aware of the glare he follows her with. She makes a show of it, swaying her hips, glancing over her shoulder at him to flirt.

He’s not looking at her.

He’s got his eyes closed, weight settled back as though supported by the snakes that trap him. He could be asleep. He could be ignoring her. He isn’t supposed to be ignoring her.

“Doctor!”

He doesn’t open his eyes, and now she knows he’s playing her. She grips the trailing tail of a snake, and the front of it wraps its way around the Doctor’s throat, squeezing, squeezing. He’ll have to stop ignoring her soon. If he wants to breathe.

He makes a choked sound, breath rasping to a halt before bypass. His limbs jerk in their nest of vipers. His knees scrape against cement. His fingers scrabble against scale. 

He makes eye contact at last.

She lets him have his air.

But now they’re connected. Now they’re plugged in. The snake she holds begins to phosphoresce, faint as the glow-in-the-dark paint he once stole from a London theatre set. Or a human teenager’s bedroom, she isn’t really sure there’s a difference.

He stares at his hand in horror, at the artron rising in wisps, like morning’s evaporating mist on the surface of a lake. 

_No, no, not again. I can’t. I can’t!_

Missy rolls her eyes and crouches down near him once more, this time sticking her head through the serpentine curtain. She tucks her end of the now-languid snake into its own coils like a scarf and pats him on the chest with the flat of her palm. Then she leans forward, crowds into his space. Her face very near his.

The steam of his life whispers, brushing secrets across her ears.

“What did they take from you...how much?”

“They what? What are you talking about?" His voice and his face are childish, wide-eyed, whiny. 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! You’re so slow!” Missy clamps her hand down over his and what was just a curl of smoke erupts into a flood of light. Colony Sarff becomes a molten conduit, liquid gold as Missy shunts regeneration energy into the system. It’s like opening a vein into a current of hot water. It’s like screaming lightning into the dark. Only it’s better. 

But whereas before, the Doctor had let Missy hold him in her trap, now he struggles in earnest. The snakes thrash as he pulls them down, and he flings one through the air, nearly whipping her cheek. She dances out of the way, but he follows it after her, grabs her by the upper arm.

“You don’t do this,” he says, and she doesn't know if it's a description or an admonition.

_Make up your mind, man._

_What is it you don’t want? Death, or life?_

Of course, there’s no answer for Missy’s question. This, too, is something they’ve been over before. (What the Doctor does want, that’s easy. It’s the form of the problem that makes it so very difficult. The Doctor doesn’t do negative space.)

By this time, Missy’s lightheaded from the energy transfer, lopsided from concentrating her life force into her fingers. So far, she's been actively pushing the transfusion onto the Doctor, but now she hurls herself into the flow. It's up to the Doctor to decide: stop her now, take what he needs, or drain her dry? 

She thrills at not knowing for absolutely certain _what_ he'll do. 

Meanwhile, she pushes back through the supercharged curtain to put her hands on the Doctor’s cheeks and pull herself close. Sarff’s tendrils grab at her to wrap her into the weave with him. They're going back, back to the beginning, to the net of light and the matrix of filaments of infancy, from which they'll be birthed afresh: she kisses him. She mimics with her tongue the explorations of the snakes. She cups the soft spot beneath his chin and jaw with her thumb and forefinger. She settles her thigh between his, leans her weight into him, breaks off the kiss to lay her head on his shoulder. 

A hundred serpentine bodies support theirs. Their energies circulate around them at a remove. Of course. The Doctor wouldn't take anything of hers. Not like this. Not when she would give it freely. Not when it's her idea. 

Missy reaches for the fastening in the Doctor’s trousers, shifting to align her side against his flank, her head still pillowed in the hollow below his clavicle, her breast brushing his ribs. She works his cock through the opening in the fabric; it's half hard from the stimulation of life energy, the activation of death contingency systems, and just by curling her hand around it and holding him, she coaxes it the rest of the way. 

“Missy,” he says, a warning. 

“Shh, shh, shush!” She sends a snake to his mouth, but he subsides, relaxing against her, and so instead she rests it, draping, across his shoulder and cheek. Tasting the air he breathes. 

She watches his face with its borrowed eyes, but keeps her own focussed on his cock in the circlet of her hand. She strokes four curved fingers over the shaft. Runs her thumb back and forth under the ridge. She's remembering a dozen other cocks, all his, and she's remembering his other hands on hers, and while every one likes different things, the basic anatomy and the basic proclivities are the same. Stimulation, accumulation, sensory overload. Release. A flooding of pathways. They have a great number of pathways to play with here. 

She barely has to open herself up. They're already bleeding energy into one another. He's already in her head. She dives through the ringing, singing telepathy--a blur of sensation right now rather than a mindscape--until she finds his second-most urgent one. Naughty Doctor, the most urgent still his preoccupation with stopping her! She gets to work on shifting his priorities. 

_Isn't this good?_ she says into his head. 

_Isn't it wonderful to know that at the right moment I could_ \--she moves her hand over the head of his cock-- _shoot all my artron right into you?_

At the look on his face she decides to press the snake against his mouth after all. She feels its scales on her lips. 

_Don't you dare._ The Doctor’s all glares and eyebrows, but when she stills her hand he pushes against it, swinging in his bonds. 

“Oh!” She says it aloud to flaunt the fact that she can. “Caught up at last, have we?”

She tightens her grip, but she's concentrating. It's too easy to be lost in the flow of information; she is him and he is her but she needs to be separate. She moves the skin of his shaft over itself, stretching and relaxing it idly while she draws a thread around the edges of her own thoughts before casting them into his, as nets into a sea.

There it is: the absence she’s been looking for. The thin patch. 

“A limb? An extremity? Oh, Doctor, what a risk. Didn't you think you'll miss it?”

_It was for a sunrise. One last sunrise, for a dying man to see with his own eyes._

“That dying man was _Davros_. Naturally, it was a trick. You fool,” she adds fondly. 

_Always._

She scratches him very lightly with her nails. He jerks in his sling of living conduits. Groans against his gag. She feels the sound as a vibration deep in her chest, her throat. 

He tugs at the restraint on his far arm, and she releases it. He wraps his hand around hers, pressing it to his penis. He pushes the sensation into one of those seine nets in her mind. She gasps; her eyes go wide. Together, they pump their hands, and in a few strokes he’s arching, using the leverage of the bodies wrapped around his, suspending them for that long moment in a space that has nothing in it but their nerve endings, his orgasm, the golden light--

By the time she blinks away the aftershocks, he is relaxing against the floor, arse against his ankles. The last of the snakes release their hold, retreat. Her palm is sticky, and she wipes it against the atrocious plaid of his trousers. He starts to object, sighs instead. The Doctor has one arm over her waist and hip; he reaches across their chests to wrap his other around her shoulder. 

Missy closes her eyes happily. “If you lose a hand, you won't be able to do that anymore.”

“I have a spare.”

She looks up at him. “No, you don't. I took your spare, and then you made it into a gecko-you. Yuck! You should have let your Jack-in-the-box take it back to his hidey hole for safekeeping.”

“That hand saved my friend’s life!”

“You really abuse your regeneration energy, you know that?”

The Doctor snorts. “You're one to talk.”

It's dark in Missy’s lair with the Colony Sarff quiescent around them. Missy gathers the nets and threads of her senses back into herself, coiling them carefully in their storage places. Every length of cordage accounted for. 

“Missy,” he says after a while. “Why would you offer me some of yours?”

She pauses, caught out. Fixes her eyes somewhere that isn't his face. “I wanted to see what would happen.”

He doesn't ask any more of the questions she knows he wants to ask, which is very much just as well.


End file.
